Torrid Love: Friends to Lovers Romance (Bad Boy Studs Book 1)

by Scarlett Avery

  My control is wavering by the second.

  Without thinking, I lower my mouth to hers. I wait for her to protest. She doesn’t. Instead, she stretches her neck until our lips touch. Finally, I kiss the girl who’s been the main feature in my wet dreams and filthy fantasies for so long now.

  The moment our lips connect, an intoxicating charge shoots straight to my cock and suddenly I can no longer spell the words ‘best friends’.

  Goddammit.

  The kiss is soft and tender at first, but in no time, it turns into a depth-smoldering make-out session. I take possession of her lips in the most unwavering way. Our tongues tangle and dance wild. With a feral grunt, I grind my rod-hard cock against Dom’s stomach. Her hips tilt forward and without warning, she writhes against me.

  “Ah, fuck,” I growl into her mouth.

  “God, yes,” she pants.

  Her response catches me off guard. I didn’t know she had it in her.

  Jesus Christ.

  The friction of her body against my desperate cock is so overwhelming, I fear I may never recover. This is way beyond my dirtiest dreams. I can only imagine how it would feel to slide balls-deep inside her tight warm pussy and fuck her hard until she clenches around my cock, squeezing me tight as she gives in to ecstasy.

  Wait? What?

  Fuck, fuck, fuck.

  What am I doing?

  Get your shit together, Rod.

  Kissing my best friend isn’t supposed to feel this good. Jesus Christ. I can’t fuck her.

  Remorse grips me at the idea I may lose the best thing in my life.

  Reluctantly, I pull away from her.

  Despite her protest, I manage to clear my head.

  “I’m so sorry, Dom,” I mutter.

  “Wh—what?”

  “I’m sorry,” I repeat.

  “Am I a bad kisser? I don’t know what I’m doing?”

  God, no.

  “I shouldn’t have…” I let my cock do all the thinking. “That was a bad idea.”

  Casual pussy I won’t remember the next morning, I can handle. This with Dom feels so different. So encompassing. I’m completely unequipped to navigate this uncharted territory.

  “A bad idea?”

  The disappointment shining bright from her eyes is unmistakable. I’m riddled with guilt.

  “I—”

  She holds a hand up and cuts me off.

  “Save it, Rod. I get it. I’m not your type. Duly noted. Like I said earlier, you should’ve gone after your skanky date instead of annoying the fuck out of me. Good night,” she turns on her heel.

  “Dom—” I grab her arm.

  “Let. Go,” she growls through gritted teeth.

  This time I do.

  I’ve already fucked things up enough. No need to dig a bigger hole for myself.

  “When you see me tomorrow, ignore me. In fact, pretend I don’t even exist.”

  Then she’s gone.

  Fuck. What have I done?

  CHAPTER 6

  Dominika

  It’s six a.m. and for the past half hour I’ve been watching the sun rise over the City of Angels. It’s a treat for a night owl like myself. When I stepped out on my deck, dawn had just started peeking through the darkness. Now, the sky is washed over by a blanket of warm colors. Soon, the sun will shine bright and LA will be alive with activity.

  Being jetlagged has its perks after all.

  When my stomach growls for the third time, I decide to feed the hungry beast.

  I walk back inside and trail to my kitchen.

  I can’t tell you how much it fills me with pride to be able to call this beautiful home in Venice mine. It isn’t a mansion, but it’s nothing like the crammed, dilapidated dump I grew up in. What a departure from where I started soon after landing at LAX. Without Rod, it would still all be a pipe dream. He helped me secure the mortgage on my dream home.

  I open the fridge and stick my head inside.

  “What to eat? What to eat?”

  Since I’m still stuffed from Holly’s meal, I decide to keep it light. A fruit salad is the perfect way to start the day. I grab a small papaya, an Ataulfo mango and a few pre-cut slices of pineapple. I place everything on the counter and go to work. As I dice the fruits, my mind wanders and I find my face heating up at last night’s memory.

  That searing kiss.

  Flashing back to the delicious sensation of our lips finally touching sets my entire body ablaze—much like it did when Rod was holding me in his strong arms. A tingle of excitement shoots right through me at the memory, like I’ve just discovered a secret world. In many ways, I have.

  I can’t believe I was that bold. It’s so unlike me, but there I was squirming into him, wriggling my body against his mighty erection.

  Don’t get me started on the way he groaned in need.

  God.

  I felt safe in Rod’s arms. It’s a sensation I’m rarely able to enjoy in a man’s proximity. Restlessness and anxiety always rob me of the ability to indulge in an intimate relationship with a man. The agonizing fear is courtesy of a predator. It’s different with Rod. I know he’d never hurt me. Trusting him is as natural as breathing.

  I know I’m making a big deal out of a kiss, but I can’t help it. That passionate embrace was the hottest and most pleasurable experience of my life. I can just imagine what it’d be like to take things further.

  Wait. No.

  And just like that, the dream crashes into a wall.

  I shake my head, snapping myself back to reality.

  Things will never go further with Rod.

  He’s made it crystal clear.

  ‘That was a bad idea.’

  Thanks for bursting my bubble, Rod.

  I’m such a fool.

  What did I expect?

  A man with too many options doesn’t have to settle.

  My phone pings, putting an end to my self-pity.

  I quickly rinse off my hands and run to the kitchen table. I grab my phone and shoot off a response.

  -----

  I’m up. You can call!

  -----

  Are you sure?

  -----

  If I were sleeping, I wouldn’t be texting you back.

  -----

  I guess you’re right. Calling now.

  -----

  “Hey, Dom!” Isobel says when I pick up.

  “Hey! It’s good to hear your voice.”

  “Same here. I didn’t expect you to be up, but I figured I’d send you a quick text right after my run so we could connect later in the day.”

  Yeah, Isobel is one of those people. She runs eight miles every day before I wake up.

  “I’m still on London time and I have a busy day ahead.”

  “You don’t even get a day to recuperate?” Isobel asks.

  “Technically, one shouldn’t require a holiday after coming back from one.”

  She laughs. “What’s on the agenda, Miss Social Butterfly?”

  “I’m meeting Zoe for brunch—it was pre-booked because I didn’t think I was going to make it last night. Later this afternoon, I’m heading to Aaron’s parents’ place for his going away party.”

  “Please say hi to him.”

  “I will.”

  “Will Rod attend?”

  I do my best to keep my voice neutral. “Guess so.”

  “All righty then. Let’s keep this train moving.”

  I laugh.

  Isobel knows me well. It’s hard to pull the wool over her eyes.

  “How was Zoe’s birthday party?”

  “Eventful.”

  “In what sense?”

  “Let’s just say a female guest made a fool of herself when Rod showed up. The classless bimbo wanted to get intimate body parts signed.”

  “Yikes. Let’s not go there.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Other than that, how was it?”

  “Soon after that incident, I left. I figured, might as well finish unpacking and
do a few loads of laundry.”

  “You left a birthday party because you wanted to be on top of your chores or because you were pissed off at Rod?”

  “It’ll be crazy when I get back into the swing of things on Monday,” I offer as an explanation.

  Isobel doesn’t answer.

  The silence between us speaks volumes.

  I’m used to seeing a gaggle of star-struck women flutter around Rod. It never used to bother me much. Something shifted between us last Thanksgiving. I can’t put my finger on it, I just know it. Since then, it’s been a constant fight to contain my jealousy when women trip all over themselves. I didn’t come home early to do laundry. I sought refuge in my home and lost myself in housecleaning to exorcise the hurt.

  “You don’t want to talk about it?” she asks.

  “I’d prefer not to,” I say with a weary sigh.

  “How was Europe?”

  “It––”

  “I really hope a dispute with Rod isn’t part of the story because I’m running out of questions,” she says.

  I laugh. “I promise he isn’t part of the Euro equation.”

  “Good. How was it?”

  “Amazing! All of it.”

  “I loved catching the highlights of your trip on social media.”

  “I figured it was the easiest way to update everyone since the time difference didn’t play in my favor. And the training was so intense, I barely had time to breathe during the first four weeks. The two weeks trekking around Europe were really fun. I was even able to stop by Croatia to give my good friend Elsa a big hug.”

  “How is she doing?”

  “She’s a hairdresser on the most popular fantasy serial drama. Too many wigs, too little time,” I laugh.

  “In other words, she’s on cloud nine.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Good for her,” Isobel says. “How was it seeing your mom?”

  “Not so amazing. If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have bothered.”

  For others, seeing their mom after an extended time apart brings feelings of nostalgia, warmth, fuzziness, happy days gone by and excitement. Not for me. Our mother-daughter relationship is a lot more complicated than most. Especially because I still despise my mother for always making me feel like an afterthought. Whenever a new man came into her life, she was always quick to take the shitty boyfriend’s side instead of standing up for her own daughter. And of course, the incessant way she’s so carefully drilled feelings of worthlessness into my psyche for years doesn’t swing in her favor. Nearly a decade apart and I still struggle to shake off her venom.

  “Nothing’s changed?” Isobel asks.

  “Nope. She’s as cheerful and motherly as ever. Not!” I say sarcastically.

  “I thought after so many years she’d be more welcoming.”

  “I knew she wouldn’t be. She just isn’t wired that way, Isobel,” I remind her. “Without you and Rory I would’ve ended up homeless, in the social system, or I would’ve been forced to follow my mother back to Europe and live under her miserable cloud.”

  Isobel Renfrew and Rod’s older brother Rory have been married for two years now, but they’ve been together forever. Rory is thirteen years older than Rod. He turned forty-one not long ago. Isobel is five years younger. With Rod’s insistence—okay, it’s more like he was a fierce advocate to save me from my mother—Isobel and Rory became my legal guardians. Not long after my fifteenth birthday, they helped me petition the courts for emancipation. Living with my mother was a hell I could no longer endure. A year later, Mom decided the American dream wasn’t for her after all. She scrounged some money, packed her few belongings and moved back to Hungary.

  “Well, it’s her loss. You’re my golden child,” Isobel says.

  “Yeah, yeah,” I roll my eyes into the phone even though she can’t see me. “I’m sure you’ll change your tune once you and Rory start having babies of your own. Speaking of which…”

  She lets out a long sigh. “We’re still trying.”

  “It’ll happen.”

  “I’m doing my best to be patient and remain optimistic. Some days I manage better than others, but it’s frustrating and disappointing.”

  “It will happen,” I repeat.

  “I hope so. I’m ready,” she sighs again. “By the way, love the new look,” she changes the subject. “I couldn’t remember what you looked like as a blonde.”

  “I thought maybe the shock of going from jet-black back to being a blonde again would help get a slight wave in my hair from the over-processing, but no, my hair is still straight as an arrow. I know I’ve said it before, but I have hair-envy every time I see you.”

  “Trust me, this hair can be a curse. When I’m in Miami, I’m reminded that being mixed race can be a liability when you’re dealing with that much humidity. If I don’t pull it back tight and gel the hell out of this mass of curls, I look positively crazy,” she laughs.

  “Right.”

  “I do,” she insists.

  She’s lying.

  Isobel’s mom is one hundred percent Californian going back God knows how many generations. She’s a stunning blonde with blue eyes. Her dad is as Brit as they come. He’s a really handsome black man from London. What a mix. As a result, she has perfect hair. It’s bouncy and full of volume. Nothing like mine. And she’s absolutely gorgeous. Her most attractive feature is undoubtedly her confidence. Her beauty transcends her looks. She’s never needed the approval of anyone. I admire that about her.

  “Says the always put together beauty queen.”

  “You’re too kind.” She pauses. “I’m glad you’re willing to embrace your natural hair color again. It’s been so long. Too long.”

  My heart jumps into my throat. The pain is still there—the constant companion I can’t seem to shake off. It’s so palatable, for a few agonizing seconds, the memory robs me of my speech.

  “Hey, it’s over. It’s the here and now. You’re safe,” Isobel says.

  “I know,” I croak.

  “The change is good,” she says.

  “It was time. I was tired of hating my natural hair color.”

  “Honey, I’m sorry the trauma still weighs on you––”

  “It will always haunt me––ingrained in my DNA like a program I can’t rewire.”

  “But at least you’re not allowing that painful episode to shackle you forever. After all, your hair color had nothing to do with what happened to you, Dom. Your hair could’ve been blue––or all the colors of the rainbow––and it would’ve been enough to trigger the monster.”

  I shudder at the terrifying memory.

  She’s repeated this many times throughout the years. Sometimes I believe her. Most times, I don’t.

  “I hear you. I’m stronger now. That’s why I’m taking control back.”

  “Well said, honey. Don’t ever let the pig win.”

  “Enough about my shitty past. I want to hear all about the latest rights you’ve acquired at UTV.com for new programming you’ll end up turning into blockbusters.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Roderick

  “What a goddamn awful morning,” I grumble as I step out of the shower.

  Even after a rigorous session in my outdoor pool where I swam enough laps to qualify for the US Olympic team, I’m still on edge. I’m pissed off at myself for having crossed the line with Dom.

  How could I survive without our friendship?

  After she escaped, I went back inside the Wordsworth to find Roark, but he was gone. He sent me a text to let me know he ended up joining the other guys at the gentleman’s club. Normally, I would’ve headed over there, but there was nothing normal about last night. How the hell was I going to explain to my brother and my boys that scorching burst of passion between Dom and I? For crying out loud, I can’t even explain it to myself. Sometimes you have to know when to fold. That’s what I did. I ended up retreating home, so troubled, I needed to be secluded from the outside world to ruminate over w
hat happened between my best friend and I.

  Did I make sense of any of it?

  Not at all.

  I’m still confused and I’m unable to explain this growing attraction for Dom.

  I head to my bedroom to get dressed before making my way downstairs to the kitchen. My doorbell rings as I hit the last step. I receive a text message at the same time.

  -----

  Hey, little brother. You up? I’m at your door.

  -----

  What do you want?

  -----

  Don’t play dumb. Open up.

  -----

  With an exasperated sigh, I march to the door and open it.

  “Morning!” Roark cheers as he steps inside my home. His dark brown eyes meet mine before his lips split into a huge smile. “I brought breakfast!”

  “Did you get laid last night? Is that why you’re so happy?”

  “Believe it or not, but thanks to Chlamydia—I mean Clemensia,” he chuckles at his own joke, “I lost my appetite for the evening.”

  “So why are you here this early?”

  “Do I need an excuse to spend some quality time with my brother?”

  I roll my eyes. “I’m not in the mood to talk right now,” I tell him.

  “If you think I’m going to let what happened last night slide, you’re as high as a kite. Since you kicked your drug habit, that means you’re stupid.”

  “You show up at my door, insult me and you expect me to welcome you, big brother? You’re delusional.”

  “Rod, you were the center of attention twice last night. I couldn’t care less about Clemensia, but I do care about Dom.” I stare him down. He holds my defiant gaze. “Should I call Dominika to find out what happened?”

  The bastard waves his phone in my face.

  “Asshole.”

  “You’re the one playing hardball.”

  “Fine,” I say, like a pissed off child.

  “Now, now, Roderick. Be a good boy,” he patronizes.

  I shake my head.

  “We might as well get it out of the way,” I concede.

  Roark and I are cut from the same cloth. When he wants something, he’s like a dog with a bone.

  * * *

  “There’s nothing like a slut for breakfast,” my brother jokes.